


The Devil's Hand

by rinnwrites



Series: Stories from the Stark Administration [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, But only a little, First Son Tony Stark, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Physical Abuse Adjacent, Secret Service Agent Bucky Barnes, Verbal Abuse, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 11:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15193322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinnwrites/pseuds/rinnwrites
Summary: Faceless assassins are nothing, but how is Bucky supposed to protect the First Son from the President himself?





	The Devil's Hand

**Author's Note:**

> For reference and for reasons, though I've never stated it, Bucky was about 26 at the start of this series, 9 years older than Tony's 17. They would now be 19 and 28.

The voices were muffled inside the door, and Bucky shuffled where he stood outside. He’d never gotten a grasp of absolute stillness, that unyielding statue’s stance that Steve had perfected long ago. His friend and mentor was the immovable epitome of the Secret Service, of Executive Protection. That was why he had the most coveted post their agency could offer. That was what brought him to be standing feet away from Bucky, where the pair flanked the door to the Oval Office, posted in defence of their charges within. 

Bucky was undoubtedly strong, and he could pull off intimidating, stoic, menacing, even. He was more than qualified and capable of protecting the First Son. He’d even taken a bullet a year ago in demonstration of that; a dent in the the metal prosthetic at his side boasted his competence. And yet, he fidgeted. 

It wasn’t a lack of patience, no. In his time with Tony Stark, Bucky had developed an incredible amount of patience, lest he go mad somewhere within the endless cycle of the teen’s shenanigans. It was impressive, really. These days he hardly ever had more than a cursory flash of panic when his charge disappeared from his lab, or when he slipped his detail at a club. 

They had an understanding, and Tony honored it well since the assassination attempt. He wouldn’t stray too far, especially not in public, he’d never disappear into a big crowd, and Bucky wouldn’t call in the cavalry unless he was unaccounted for longer than fifteen minutes. 

That understanding didn’t stop the witty sarcastic remarks, or the near constant stream of commentary about whatever project Tony was working on, the film that was playing, the scenery passing by in the car, or the various people of consequence they were so often rubbing elbows with. 

Their understanding didn’t obviate Bucky’s need for patience. (Even if he did quite enjoy listening to Tony talk, particularly about his projects)

So really, the nervous energy he displayed outside of the Oval Office wasn’t anything to do with patience. It was more a reaction to the situation at hand. Tony was  _ safe _ , technically. There were few rooms on the planet better defended than the President’s own office, after all, but it wasn’t really Tony’s physical wellbeing that concerned Bucky. 

He’d known from almost day one that the relationship between the President and his son wasn’t the most loving. It had become clear the longer Bucky spent with him that Tony didn’t hold his father in the highest regard, more than likely for good reason, and while he didn’t necessarily  _ despise _ the man, he hadn’t been thrilled about being summoned to the Oval today.

Tony’s discomfort had him on edge.

The conversation was personal; that was made clear when President Stark asked for the room, indicating that even Steve, his own protective detail, should wait outside while he talked to his son. 

That was 25 minutes ago. 

The longer they were in there, the more unsettled Bucky became, the more he felt as though something was  _ off. _

He waited, on high alert, telling himself he was overreacting when the quiet, muffled voices from the other side of the wall got louder and more distinct. He still couldn’t make out the words, but the low, angry tone told him it was the President doing the talking. 

While Howard Stark was, technically, his boss, Bucky had never been particularly fond of the man, and as he stood there straining to hear, he realized that he most certainly did not trust him. Every fiber of Bucky’s being was telling him that the man was a threat to his charge, something not to protect, but to protect  _ against. _

His hands clenched into fists at the thought and as the raised voice turned to  _ yelling _ , he willed himself to calm down, squirming even more under the knowing look Steve gave him. Steve held no great love for Stark either, but he didn’t have the overwhelming instinct to protect Tony that was flaring up in Bucky, so he was better able to keep his wits. His face said, ‘ _ Calm down, stay in your place, it’s none of our business.’ _

It certainly  _ felt _ like it was Bucky’s business. 

Tony was his business. And maybe he was mostly charged with protecting him physically, but how was he supposed to stand by and let the boy he cared so deeply for endure this verbal assault?

“Steve..” Bucky said weakly, holding himself in his spot just barely, a hair trigger away from bursting through that door to put himself between Tony and his father. 

Then a loud  _ crash!  _ came from the room, unmistakably the shattering of glass, and that was the final straw, Bucky ripped the door open, charging through to get to Tony, Steve close on his heels. 

Bucky was on Tony and Steve was on Howard in a heartbeat, Steve’s voice, ever professional, asking the President, “Are you alright, sir?” as Bucky placed himself between Tony and the other men, instinctively cupping his face for a second, and looking from his shocked face to the tear in the wallpaper just behind him, where amber scotch dripped from shoulder height to the floor, a crystal decanter in a million pieces below. 

His face hardened, metal hand clasping tightly on Tony’s shoulder as he turned to look at Steve, then Howard, the latter’s face bearing annoyed and unrepentant scowl. 

“I’m taking him back to the residence.” Bucky said flatly, giving neither Steve, nor Howard himself, any chance to argue before ushering Tony out of the room. 

He walked quickly and quietly with Tony tucked into his side, only breaking his silence to mutter lowly into his earpiece, “Heartbreaker en route to residence.”

While they spent more time in Boston than Washington, Bucky knew the halls of the White House like the back of his hand, and had Tony secure in residential quarters in the blink of an eye, not stopping to think, or breathe, or let himself react until they were inside Tony’s bedroom, the door closed securely behind them. 

Tony remained silent, letting himself be lead through the building and set gently down on the bench at the foot of his bed, Bucky taking a knee in front of him to look up into his face. 

“Tony, are you okay?” His voice was soft, taking Tony back to that very first night, election night, when he’d woken from his accidental nap to see those soft blue eyes for the first time. They were so pained now, but just as soft, and Tony sighed. 

“I’m fine,” he was going to stop there, keep up appearances. Nothing could faze him, everything was  _ great. _ And then he reached up to run a hand through his messy hair and saw the blood, a single crimson line halfway from his elbow to his wrist, a small shard of crystal protruding from the skin. “Just...bleeding, apparently,” he added, the attempt to sound amused falling flat in the suffocating silence of the room. 

“Jesus, Tony,” Bucky sighed, reaching for his wrist, “let me take a look.”

His anger had faded with the distance from Howard, and now he was just filled with concern as he gingerly lifted Tony’s arm, rotating it to see where the bit of glass was stuck in his flesh. 

“It doesn’t look too bad, but I’ll get someone to patch it up.”

“No!” Tony pulled his arm back and Bucky froze, hand halfway to his ear to press the button on his comm unit. 

Tony looked down at his lap, shaking his head, “I don’t, uh….I don’t want to be around anyone else right now.”

He looked ashamed, his cheeks pink and eyes downcast, and it made Bucky  _ ache _ because Tony shouldn’t be made to feel that way. 

He nodded anyway, “I’ll grab a first aid kit, then.” he placated, standing from his place in front of Tony to rummage in the en suite bathroom for supplies. He returned to kneel on the floor again with the kit and a cup of water. Tony held out his arm while Bucky unpackaged a pair of sterile tweezers, and prepared a few squares of gauze. 

“This might pinch,” he said calmly, looping metal fingers around Tony’s wrist and maneuvering the tweezers to grab at the shard of glass. He deftly removed it, setting it and the tweezers aside to press gauze to staunch the fresh rivulet of blood as it poured from the wound. 

Bucky worked quickly and carefully, dutifully avoiding Tony’s gaze while he cleaned the cut and covered it with a fresh bandage before wiping the excess blood from further down his arm. 

“There. Won’t even leave a mark.” 

Well, it wouldn’t physically scar, no, but Bucky worried more for Tony’s mental state, nodding at his whispered “Thanks,” and moving to put away the supplies and wash his hands. 

Bucky returned to find Tony sitting in the same place, and took a seat beside him on the bench. The look of shame was gone from Tony’s face, he looked more like himself, the confident and self-sufficient kid that Bucky knew. He wasn’t  _ fragile _ , as much as Bucky felt the call to protect him. Tony wasn’t helpless. He’d survived more and worse, and Bucky could tell from the way he bounced back. 

“Has he always been like that?” The question was out before Bucky could think about how out of line it was, but Tony just shrugged, looking over with a joyless smile on his face. 

“Long as I can remember. Nothing’s really good enough, nothing measures up. I’m used to the yelling. Sometimes...more.” he was reticent to go on, gaze falling to the bandage on his arm, “the glass-throwing, that’s new.” his tone was all resigned acceptance and Bucky sighed. 

“Shit, Tony, one of these days I’m going to get arrested for punching the goddamn President of the United States,” he toed the line between humor and seriousness, shaking his head as Tony sent him a grin.

“I’ll visit you in prison.” Tony joked, “Hell, maybe I’ll even join you. I’d rather be with you than here anyway.”

Bucky froze a little at that, hating himself for the way his heart swelled, even as he looked over with a soft smile, “yeah?”

“Yeah.”

As Bucky opened his mouth to give a witty retort, his comm crackled and he heard Maria Hill’s voice,  _ “Relief team for Heartbreaker en route.” _

“I know that face, big brother’s whispering in your ear.” Tony prodded, ever curious to know what was being said about him on comms. 

Bucky stood, making his way to the door. “They’re relieving me, probably to debrief me on what just happened. I’ll let them know to stay outside the door, if you want some privacy?”

“You’re not in trouble?” Tony asked incredulously, a flash of worry in his eyes as he stood from the bench and took a few steps towards Bucky as if to reach out for him, before stopping short. 

That was a real possibility, but there wasn’t really protocol for what had happened, so who was to say how this would be handled? 

“I’ll be fine.” Bucky assured him, turning the knob and beginning to push the door open to meet his relief team.  

“Hey,” Tony called, drawing Bucky’s gaze back around to him just in time to see nervous resolution in Tony’s eyes as he strode over and closed a fist around Bucky’s solid black tie, pulling him down to meet warm lips in a stolen kiss.

Bucky’s head swam with a mix of shock, delight, and panic and then it was over, all too soon and not soon enough.

“You better be.” Tony grinned, pushing Bucky out the door. 

A flustered and conflicted Bucky fumbled to straighten his tie just as the two replacement agents rounded the corner. 

“Heartbreaker indeed,” he mumbled miserably to himself as he set off down the hallway. 


End file.
